


Monsters

by IceQueen1



Category: Supernatural
Genre: British Men of Letters, Gen, You're fucked
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8319586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceQueen1/pseuds/IceQueen1
Summary: An alternate dialogue between Lady Toni and Sam in the season 12 premiere





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is an angry piece. There's lots of swearing that I don't know that I think Sam would necessarily use. But I WAS SO DAMN MAD AT THAT WOMAN IN THE PREMIER. Oh, which reminds me: spoilers for Season 12 premier, so...there's that. But seriously. I just want to reach through the screen and throttle that damn woman, or Sammy to get his awesome demon powers back for like 20 seconds so he could do some proper damage.
> 
> Also - because this was written in a fit of "SAMMY! MY PRECIOUS!" there's likely a couple of errors - spelling (because I type reeeally fast and have a dodgy keyboard) but also I don't remember if his hands were tied, zip tied, or chained, or what the exact lines were. Possibly continuity errors but really, I just wanted there to be a moment where the Men of Letters realized: the Winchesters are serial killers. They are the monsters that MONSTERS warn their children about. Sam may be the "nice" one, but that doesn't make him "harmless."
> 
> Whew. Anyway. Therapy. Rage therapy.

"Hold up," Sam said, blowing a stray piece of hair out of his eyes. "You're trying to equate having England…which is what…like fifty thousand square miles? An island with carefully controlled borders, with one of the most comprehensive CCTV networks in the world, with the United States. We have…" he paused, trying to remember the late night trivia shows he would watch when he couldn't sleep at Stanford. "Close to four _million_ square miles. That's eighty _times_ the size of your country."

Lady Toni's pen clicked quietly against her clipboard, one delicate eyebrow raised. "Is there a point to this Sam, or are you just trying to prove your just as good with numbers as you are with letters?"

Sam clenched his hands into fists tight enough he heard his knuckles crack. "My _point_ is we have a lot more fucking ground to cover, with less intel, and it's pretty much the two of us when shit went _really_ south. Yeah, we fucked up. We fucked up big sometimes. But you wanna know what? We cleaned up our own messes, with no help from you. We had hunters. _Good_ hunters. Good _people_. And not a whole lot of them are left standing. You keep saying your good at your jobs?" Sam scoffed, one corner of his lip curling up in a snarl. "You're goddamn _cowards_ is what you are. You even stood by and did nothing when the American branch of Men of Letters was slaughtered by Abaddon. You're welcome, by the way – 'cause we're the ones who killed her."

Toni remained silent, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

"Oh, what? Nothing to add? No commentary?" Sam asked snidely. "Should I continue? What was that list you prattled off earlier? You know, before you _shot me_. In my _home_. After I just lost my _brother_ who was off saving the fucking world _again_ – because your story stays the same. Too little, too fucking late. Archangels? Yeah. We kicked Lucifer's ass. We killed one. The other one died helping us. And the last one? Yeah. He's trapped, too. Next. Leviathans. Where the _hell_ were you people then, huh? They were killing and _eating_ people by the hundreds. And you just what, sat around with your collective thumbs up your asses? The human race becoming the primary food source of a primordial monster from Purgatory wasn't enough of an excuse to pitch in and I don't know… _help_?"

"You were-" Lady Toni began, but Sam growled between his teeth.

"Don't interrupt," he snapped, seething with hardly contained rage. "Most recently? The Darkness. The first evil of the world – so big, and so bad that God and all of his Archangels had to work together to put her into her box the first time. This time?" Sam couldn't help the twisted grin because this was his grieving process. He was alone now. The last of the Winchester line.

And hell if he was going to go gentle into that good night.

Rage bubbled forth as all he could think of was the number of times he and his family, his friends fought and _died_ for this world. It was one thing to be alone against it all, but to find out there were _others_? More people that could've helped level the playing field but decided that was too _beneath_ them to get involved?

 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light_.

"Not even God could do it this time. But you want to know who did? My _brother_ ," Sam snarled. He rocked the chair back momentarily before slamming the front legs down once more onto the concrete. "And you think _we_ should partner with _you_?"

This time, he didn't bother trying to squelch the manic laughter that bubbled forth. "I've been trapped in the Cage with Lucifer and Michael themselves. I've died so many times I've lost count. I've killed a woman I loved at her request because she couldn't live as a monster. I've been shot. Stabbed. Burned. Beaten and broken. And you think you have what it takes to break me?"

Lady Toni sighed, as if he was a school boy who'd given what perhaps was an accurate answer, was not the one she wanted to hear. She carefully capped her pen, and put it to the side, standing and smoothing her jacket.

"I think those are big words from a man who is alone in this world," Lady Toni said. "I think those are brave words in the face of fear. The point here, Sam, is that I don't _want_ to hurt you. I don't see why this has to be unpleasant, for either of us. You want to rid the world of evil? So do we. We're on the same team, we just have…different methods."

Sam twisted his hands again in the bindings. "Listen lady. I'm going to paint a picture that maybe you can understand. The difference between us? You and me, right here, right now?" He nodded his chin over at the woman near the sink. "I'll even include her in the mix. You're talking about us like we don't know what we're doing. You've watched us, apparently for years. But you want to know what knowledge _I_ have of Men of Letters? Cuthbert Sinclair, who was extreme enough even the other members didn't want him. Josie Sands. Host of Abaddon – who then proceeded to wipe out the rest of them. One might think I have a bit of sympathy for her, but really – I know what it's like to be possessed. Except _my_ copilot was Lucifer – _King of Hell_. And I still managed to find the willpower to beat him down long enough to throw us both in the Cage." He curled his lip in disgust. "And now there's _you_. You think we're out of control? We're the ones who are dangerous? Who has who tied to a chair, threatening to torture them over _networking_?"

Lady Toni listened to his speech before she nodded to her cohort, who turned the knob on the faucet.

Ice cold water from the shower showerhead above him cascaded down, and Sam reflexively closed his eyes. He was expecting car batteries and electrodes. Cattle prods. Something. But the water continued to rain down on him. It didn't burn with acid. It didn't ignite his skin or sting his eyes like Holy Oil.

It was just cold water.

"Seriously?" Sam said, spitting water out as he tossed the errant strands of now soaked hair plastered against his skin out of his face. "A cold shower? Did I _not_ just explain the threshold you're going to have to _cross_ to break me?"

"Everyone is brave in the beginning, Sam," Lady Toni said confidently. "And if you'd really been through the type of torture you claim to have, you would know that the first rule is to start small, and build."

"That's the first rule of great drama, you ass," Sam growled. "And the end result of this had better be that you kill me."

"So eager to die?" the woman near the sink asked, a slow smirk quirking one corner of her mouth up.

Sam chuckled, turning his face momentarily up towards the shower. "No. But if you think you're going to break me, and you won't, and you let me live? I'm not going to return the favor."

"I know you, Sam. Your brother was the psychopath. Not you," Lady Toni pointed out.

Sam smiled bitterly. "You've already answered this. I am alone, with nothing. And someone who has lost everything has nothing left to lose."

"You still have your life. Your angel friend," Lady Toni said.

"What? Cass can't come visit me if I'm dead? Do you even know how this works?" Sam laughed. "How are you still alive? Are you sure the reason why you don't have monsters here is because you're just not worth the concern? It's not like you're ever going to leave the island and do something proactive like _pursue them_."

He could feel the heat leaching from his body. He could barely feel his feet anymore and the shivering was beginning to make his gunshot wound throb with the extra movement.

Pain would pass. Scars would heal. He had lived through worse.

"I'm going to tell you the same thing we tell the angels, the demons and the monsters." Sam leaned forwards, just enough that his face was out of the immediate downpour. He wanted to make sure Lady Toni was listening. "None of you get it. _We're_ the ones you should be afraid of."


	2. Chapter 2

When the phone rang, Lady Toni answered on the second ring. She’d barely made it past ‘hello’ before a voice that most assuredly was _not_ Watts spoke.

“You have my brother. I want him back.”

“Well aren’t you full of surprises?” Toni said.

“You have my brother,” Dean Winchester repeated, voice flat and dulled. Even over the poor reception from inside the basement, Toni could hear the barely contained rage. “I want him back.”

“I suppose you’re offering a trade? Hmm? Miss Watts for your brother?” Toni said, unable to keep the smile off her face.

There was a beat of silence before Dean responded. She could practically see him shrugging one shoulder indifferently. “Yeah, sure, if you want her corpse back so bad, you can have it. Not like I’m gonna do anything with it.”

Toni’s well-manicured fingers tightened on the phone. “She’s dead?”

“Very.”

“And you think that puts you in a position to negotiate with me, do you?”

Dean laughed at that, and she felt a shiver trail down her spine. “Lady – you seem to know us well enough to ambush my brother in our home. Did I say anything about exchanging shit for my brother? _Did I_?” Dean snarled into the phone loud enough she had to hold it away from her ear.

“You want him?” Toni said, trying to keep her voice even. She was more than prepared for an American Hunter. Even for his feathered friend. She had the high ground in this shoot out. “Come and get him.”

There were several beats of dead silence. The next time Dean Winchester spoke, it was barely loud enough for her to hear him over the poor connection.

“I’m coming,” he growled. “And Hell’s coming with me.”

She didn’t even have a chance to hang up. The phone clicked in her ear, and she frowned down the ‘call ended’ screen.

“That was a bit dramatic,” she muttered before putting the cell back on the table, next to the various blood covered instruments. She picked up a small, thin stiletto blade, twirling it absently in her hand before turning back to Sam Winchester.

He was still bound in the chair, but instead of cocky and arrogant, he was breathing hard through clenched teeth as blood and sweet stained his shirt. She could still smell the acrid scent of burnt flesh from the open wound on his foot, and she could see him try and keep it off the ground as best he could, despite the shackles.

“Your brother sends his regards,” she said flippantly, watching the pained glazed over look in Sam’s eyes evaporate at the mention of his brother.

“Dean?” he rasped, teeth chattering slightly from shock. “He’s alive?”

Toni smiled coyly for a moment. “For now, anyway. He says he’s coming to save you.”

Sam’s mouth twisted into a grin, though the effect was slightly dampened by the blood stains on his teeth from biting his lip. “Those were his words?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Close enough anyway. It doesn’t matter, because it isn’t going to happen. I have this place so heavily warded his angel friend is never going to be able to get past it.”

Sam continued to grin, but there was something hollow behind that smile. “Cass can’t come in?” he coughed. “That’s too bad.”

“Oh?”

This time, it was Sam who shrugged indifferently, though he hissed quietly when it pulled on the open wound to his shoulder. “Cass would’ve been the only one who would stop him.”

Toni raised an elegantly plucked eyebrow. “From?”

“Killing you.”

 She rolled her eyes. “Oh please.”

And drove the stiletto up to its hilt into Sam’s shoulder.

)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*

Cass found the farmhouse with relative ease. He may actually be on par with Sammy when it came to research, Dean mused to himself. He definitely saved his ass by agreeing to stay outside with his mom.

He didn’t bother to correct her assumption that he was worried about her. She wasn’t wrong – she just wasn’t wholly right, either.

He didn’t want his mom to see what he was about to do.

Cass was right – the whole place was warded tighter than the bunker. Spells and wards and enchantments he’d never seen before.

Not that it mattered.

He found the cellar entrance, which of course was warded. There was a symbol faintly drawn on the ground in front of it, one that he didn’t recognize but drew his foot through it anyway. The odds of whatever sigil it was having any power if it was broken was pretty slim.  The door was locked and bolted too, from the other side. It didn’t matter. He reared one foot back and slammed it into the lock, shattering the wood around it.

He almost didn’t hear his brother’s cry of pain over the crashing, and in true Winchester fashion, he didn’t wait to hear more. With pistol raised, he barreled down the narrow, steep basement steps towards his little brother.

A woman stood behind Sam, looking so horribly out of place for the carnage around him in her cardigan and ironed pants and sensible shoes. But Dean recognized a killer when he saw one. She may look like a British version of a Volvo driving soccer mom, but the comfortable grip she held on the knife against Sam’s throat spoke volumes.

“Dean?” Sam gasped, eyes quickly taking in everything about his brother – making sure he wasn’t a delusion or a ghost. “You’re alive?”

“Yup,” Dean said, keeping his gun raised and leveled at the woman. “What’d I tell you about picking up strange women? You don’t know where they’ve been.”

Sam couldn’t help the disbelieving chuckle. “You’re one to talk. And for the record – she picked _me_ up.”

Dean glanced down at his brother’s leg, noting the bullet hole in the thigh, the blood smeared into the denim cracked and dried. It was the oldest injury on him. Everything else was still fresh and bleeding, from the cut across his forehead, to the stab wound to the shoulder.

The smell of burnt flesh from raw and open wound on his brother’s bare feet.

“You did this?” Dean asked, eyes flicking back to the woman who stood behind his brother, using him as a human shield. He kept his gun trained on her.

“Not _all_ of it,” the woman said. Posh British accent. He thought of Bela and her well-deserved demise. “Watts helped.”

“You think you have a better chance of walking away from this than she did?”

“I do.”

Dean’s lip pulled upwards in a smirk that probably resembled more of a snarl. “Walk me through that logic.”

“All I want is information on the American Hunters. Their leadership. How to contact them. The passcodes to the Bunker’s databases,” the woman said, sounding reasonable. “Your brother didn’t want to tell me, so I was forced to get ugly. You think I _wanted_ it this way?”

Dean’s gaze flickered down to Sam, who subtly shook his head.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I think you did. And if you were a Hunter, you would know why.”

The woman cocked her head to the side, her hand still firmly on the blade as it scratched against Sam’s throat. “Oh?”

Before she could react, Dean fired, hitting her high on the shoulder. It wouldn’t kill her. But it would break her clavicle, and if he was lucky, her scapula, too. Her hand dropped the knife as she screeched in pain, falling back and away from his little brother.

It took every ounce of will he had not to march over to her, curb stomp that pretty, smug little face into the concrete until bones shattered beneath his shoe before using one of her own blades to see if she even had a heart to cut out.

“If you were a Hunter,” he said, voice tight, “you would know that predators recognize other predators.”

He stalked carefully towards her, but not because he was afraid or worried about what she might do. No matter how badly he wanted her dead, wanted her to suffer, wanted her to _understand_ just _who and what the fuck she was dealing with_ , there was always a part of him that tried to hold back. Because he didn’t like the way it made him remember his time with Alastair. His year in Purgatory. The Blade. Reminded him that he could be less than human.

“Keys?” he asked Sam, who shook his head. Probably meant the bitch had them on her. He kicked her foot as she tried to crawl away from him. “Keys?” he repeated, not lowering the gun.

He really, _really_ wanted to shoot her.

“You’ll have to kill me first,” the woman spat, her good arm clutching desperately at the mess that was her left.

“You’re acting like that’s gonna be an issue for me,” Dean said indifferently. “Keys.”

She spat at him, even though she didn’t have a hope in hell of hitting him, and he rolled his eyes, sighing.

“What is your deal anyway?” Dean asked. “I get back from saving the world, and I find my brother gone, an angel banishing sigil in blood on my wall, and then I find out you came out of nowhere to kidnap him. You and your…body guard? Attack dog? Whoever the hell that bitch was. Why? Who are you, anyway?”

“She’s Men of Letters,” Sam answered.

Dean almost risked a glance back at his brother, because he was sure he hadn’t heard that right. “Men of Letters were wiped out.”

“Only the American ones, apparently,” Sam said. “She’s from the British Chapterhouse. Abaddon missed them.”

“You mean to tell me…” Dean snarled, “that you were around for _everything_ in the last twelve years? Why are we just hearing about you _now_? Where the _fuck_ were you when Lucifer broke out? When Azazel was corrupting kids?  When Leviathans were making their own version of Soylent Green? How about when the goddamn _Darkness_ showed up and was busy trying to destroy the world?”

“We _observe_ and record, you heathen,” the woman snapped. “It wasn’t our concern.”

“Apparently, they have Britain under control to the point they haven’t had a monster related death in over forty years,” Sam piped up. “She thinks she can do the same for the US.”

“So let me get this straight,” Dean said, a fake smile plastered across his face. “Until twenty-four hours ago, we weren’t worthy of a ‘how’s it going’, but now you want to _help_? So you _kidnap_ and _torture_ my brother, send your hired thug to kill me, and you think I’m _magically_ going to want to help you?”

Again, before the woman could speak, Sam answered for her. “She wants the contact information for all of the Hunters. She thinks there’s like…some coalition or something for us. Like it’s a club with membership dues.”

“You think we have that?” Dean asked incredulously. “You don’t think if we had people to call, we would’ve fucking called when the world went to Hell in a goddamn handbasket? Are you seriously that fucking stupid? How does that even make sense? You have brain damage going on you want to disclose to the rest of the class? Seriously. I want to know your thought process. You didn’t once come at us like we could be allies. You came at us as the enemy. You’re not coming back from that. But if you’re so interested in information, how about you share something with us?”

“Like what?” the woman spat. “I’m not giving you anything.”

“I ain’t asking for state secrets, sweetheart. You’re not alone, am I right? You have friends that are going to come looking for you?” Dean sneered.

“Yes,” the woman hissed, pushing herself up against the support beam.

“So if I kill you, they’re gonna come for us?” he pushed.

“Yes. The Chapterhouse will come for you,” she said, a flicker of her old arrogance coming back.

“Then I’ll kill them too,” Dean said flatly. “I will kill every _single_ one of them. I’d like to say I don’t have it in me to kill another human, especially not one that can actually help us out, but that would be a bigger lie than I’m comfortable telling. We’ve killed just about everything that walked or crawled at one point or another. Hell, I’ve killed Death himself – and I _liked_ him. I apprenticed under an archdemon in Hell for thirty years, learning how to torture someone. I was Death for a day. I bore the Mark of Cain. I _became a demon_. If you think for one second you’re going to outplay me on this field, you’ve got another thing coming. I will find you. And I will kill you. And then I’m going to find everyone else in your club, and I’m going to kill them too.”

The woman opened her mouth to say something, but Dean waved the gun.

“I really, _really_ want to kill you right now. But I am _very_ tired,” Dean said. “My brother and I just got done saving the word again, and I was housing the equivalent of a thermonuclear warhead of monster souls for a minute there. But more importantly, I have someone that I am trying very, _very_ hard to live up to their expectations of me, and she’s not going to like it if I kill someone on her second day back.”

He levelled the gun at her, and she flinched away.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to kill me?” she protested.

“And I’m not.” He fired one round into her knee. He tried not to smile when she screamed in pain, but he doubted he was very successful. When he fished in her pockets for the keys to Sam’s restraints, she slapped feebly at his hand, leaving blood smeared across the back of it. “I’m just going to hurt you.”

He fired a second round into her other knee. “I’m just going to hurt you.”

He turned his back on her, keeping his gun out as he surveyed the tray of torture instruments nearby. His hand clenched even tighter on the handle as he noted the number of them with dried blood on them.

His brother’s blood.

Dean quickly undid Sam’s handcuffs, leaving him to undo the restraints around his legs.

He picked up the blowtorch, igniting it with a flick of a finger.

“Really, _really_ bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Rage. for that woman. Ohhhh, I hate her. Hate her like I have never hated a character before in my life. I want her dead. I want her kid dead. And that little bitch Mick? He's gotta go too. 
> 
> Anyway, pop culture references galore, because that's how Dean rolls. Read and review!

**Author's Note:**

> So. There you have it. Like I said - lots of swearing. But essentially a rage piece of "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU. WINCHESTER IS THE MOST FEARED NAME IN HUNTERS. TOE TO TOE WITH THE HORSEMEN. LUCIFER. LEVIATHANS. ARCHANGELS AND DEMONS AND MONSTERS AND CANNIBALS AND ARRRRRRRRRGH. WHY WOULD YOU PICK ON SERIAL KILLERS?!"
> 
> But I do love them. And I want some damage done in episode 2. Let me know what you think!


End file.
